Sky Chasers

by Emma Carroll

  No, I think, my brain isn’t like Camille’s. Not at all.

  ‘My mother wasn’t cruel like my father. She always told me I could do anything, that all I had to do was work hard and hope.’ Camille touches the brooch. ‘This was her favourite piece of jewellery. She’d tell me stories about how when she wore it, it made her feel as if she was floating on air. It was silly nonsense, really.’

  Yet I’d felt something when I’d worn it, hadn’t I? Like I was about to be lifted off my feet. ‘It’s not silly,’ I blurt out, but she’s not listening.

  ‘Years later, when my mother died, my father refused to hand over the brooch. When I heard Guillotin had copied my idea, I became fixated on that brooch. It was like a talisman to me. If only I had it, I could do anything. I’d challenge Guillotin’s patent, I’d make a name for myself. Like my mother promised, I’d be walking on air – do you see?’

  I do see why she wanted me to steal back the brooch.

  ‘But why did you pretend to want the papers?’ I ask.

  She smiles: nastily, spitefully. ‘I wasn’t pretending, Magpie. I simply wanted to scupper their chances. The more it looked like they’d succeed, the more I was set on ruining it for them, just like they’d done to me.’

  It sinks in, bit by bit. She was never really interested in the papers themselves. They were just a reminder of what her brothers were achieving and all she’d lost.

  ‘I won, though, didn’t I, Magpie?’ Camille says. ‘It was all worth it in the end.’

  ‘Was it?’ I’m amazed to hear her say this.

  It’s no good me feeling sorry for her either, I realize. Though I’ve a clearer sense these days of what’s right and what’s definitely wrong, it’s a line Camille Delacroix doesn’t understand.

  The pain’s back in my chest. I’m weakening. It’s time to end our talk. ‘You got your brooch if that’s what you mean,’ I tell her. ‘But you’re the one in a prison cell, not your brothers. They’re the toast of France.’

  She stares at me. Like she might try to hit me, even with the prison bars between us. Then, her shoulders start to shake. Her head goes down. I sit forward, alarmed: is she crying?

  No.

  She looks up, her face all twisted. She’s laughing.

  Unsteadily, I get to my feet. I’ve had enough of Camille Delacroix. I’m sorry for her horrible life, but being vengeful and bitter doesn’t pay in the end. We succeeded today, and she failed. I look her straight in the eye, one last time, and I don’t shrink at all.

  As we head up the steps, Monsieur Cedric lets me lean on his arm. I need it.

  ‘I feel a bit sorry for the son, to be honest,’ he says. ‘His mother blamed him for everything – threatened to kill him and his horse! If that’s how the English treat their children, then I don’t think much of them.’

  I don’t tell him that actually she’s French. Nor do I let him see the tears in my eyes. Because any fool can guess who the son and horse are in this sorry story.

  30

  It should’ve brought us some sort of peace, and in a way it does. The flight is declared a spectacular triumph by the King and Queen of France, who celebrate with champagne and fireworks. The animals are given medals for bravery: Voltaire wears his round his neck, all proud, but every time I try to put Coco’s on him he shakes his feathers and crows. Now he’s found his voice he won’t stop. Lancelot – sorry, Montauciel – goes down in history as the first ever flying sheep, though thankfully there’s no record of what it did to her bowels. She returns to live a happy life on the Queen’s farm. No one tells her that, in the Queen’s eyes, she’s second best to fashion. All that matters is she’ll never be eaten, which for a sheep is decent enough.

  Further afield, every news-sheet carries the story of the world’s first flying machine, how it stayed in the air over Versailles for eight whole minutes, and only came down because of a tear in its side. Overnight, balloons become all the rage. Everyone’s talking about them – which is funny really, when we worried about keeping it secret, though it makes a welcome change from guillotines. The Montgolfier design is copied onto dresses, wallpaper. The Queen keeps wearing tiny balloons in her wig. And the Montgolfiers’ name – a French name, not an English one – is in the history books at last.

  Life’s looking up for me too. I’ve been welcomed into the Montgolfier family for good. Monsieur Joseph’s even planning to make it official.

  ‘As soon as we get back to Annonay I’ll have adoption papers drawn up,’ he tells me.

  And so I start experiencing a sort of happiness I’ve never known before. It’s not fluttery and giddy but steady and true, and every morning when I wake up it’s still there. I’ve got a family name now too: Magpie Montgolfier which, I don’t mind admitting, has a rather fine ring to it. Though I’m not so bothered about it being made official. I’m beginning to think we make too much fuss about papers.

  When it’s finally time to face the long journey home, we set off early from Versailles, taking the main road as far as Paris before bearing south. The sun’s only just up, the horses are fresh, the road is quiet. As it’s too nice a morning to sit inside the carriage, Pierre and I are happily perched on the outside, swinging our legs from the back shelf. It’s the best place for views and fresh air. Voltaire prefers it too; he’s never been the same about small spaces after that crate. As for Coco, he just wants to crow. And crow. So we sit him on the roof and leave him to it.

  A few miles west of Paris, I notice we’re being followed. The lone rider is on a grey horse, and could easily overtake, but instead stays thirty or forty feet behind us.

  ‘What’s he up to?’ I ask Pierre, who’s noticed him too.

  ‘Well, he can’t be a robber. We’ve nothing worth stealing now, have we, Magpie?’

  I glance sideways at Pierre, thinking it’s an odd remark to make. But he says no more about it, and nor do I.

  Just as we reach the outskirts of Paris, the rider finally pushes his horse into a gallop and speeds past. The road’s dusty, busy. It happens so fast I almost miss it. A quick eyeful of the horse is all I need to be certain: it’s Dante. The rider, crouched low over his horse’s neck, looks like an ordinary boy enjoying a fast ride. And it makes me suddenly sad for the friendship that might’ve been.

  ‘Hang on, isn’t that—?’ Pierre points as boy and horse whizz by.

  I don’t want to talk any more about Sebastien- it’s still too confusing. All along he’d been working with his mother and father, and yet despite it I don’t hate him. I’m angry, yes, that he’d been plotting against us while pretending to be our friend. Yet he’d shown the sort of bravery and cunning too that I can’t help but admire. And you can’t choose your parents, can you? I know that, as well as anyone.

  Up ahead, the grey horse turns left towards Paris. Just before we carry on out of sight, Sebastien turns in his saddle.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ he calls out.

  I nod: so am I.

  Back in Annonay, we’re welcomed home like conquering heroes. The sounds of cheering and festival music greet us before we’ve even crossed the river. As we hit the town itself, people line the streets and lean out of upstairs windows, waving anything they can get their hands on that’s red, gold or blue. Somewhere in all of this I feel like I belong, like I’ve a right to call this town my home.

  At the house, I reclaim my little bedroom with the painted white floor. It’s decided that Coco should sleep outside from now on, on account of his crowing, which starts at two o’clock each morning and lasts until sunrise, without fail. Though I still tend the animals in the morning, in the afternoons Pierre is teaching me to read and write. Madame Verte and Odette get used to this new arrangement: I’m just another Montgolfier to feed and bathe and roll their eyes at when they think no one’s looking.

  But, like ropes dangling from the balloon, there are still some things I can’t always get a hold of. Like why life seems so much harder when you’re a girl. As I learn my letters in this same house w
here Camille was forbidden to learn hers, I think of all that might’ve been different if she’d been allowed to grow into a decent person, rather than being pitted against everyone else.

  Meanwhile, Monsieur Joseph and Monsieur Etienne are working on their next prototype, one that will this time very publicly carry humans not animals. Monsieur de Rozier, the science man, is to be the first passenger.

  A man.

  I wonder if any of them realize that that none of this would’ve happened without women. Strange, I know, but true. It took Camille to get me into the Montgolfiers’ house. Madame Montgolfier’s undergarments to solve the hot air mystery. Even Lancelot played her part in buying us a bit of time. And I like to think that I had something to do with it all, too.

  That autumn, after months of huffing and puffing and complaining of backache, Madame Montgolfier gives birth to a baby girl. She’s the most perfect little thing in the world, though don’t tell Coco I said so.

  One sleepy Sunday, not long after she’s born, we’re gathered around the fire in the salon, marvelling at our newest Montgolfier. As she still doesn’t have a first name, we all agree it’s time to put that right.

  ‘She should have a strong name,’ Monsieur Joseph says. ‘Something serious and scholarly. We need to do better by our womenfolk in this family.’

  I’m glad to hear it.

  ‘Perhaps we could call her Camille?’ Monsieur Etienne suggests.

  I must’ve pulled a face because Pierre laughs. ‘I’m not sure that’s the best idea, uncle, all things considered.’

  ‘Quite,’ Monsieur Joseph agrees. ‘We’re looking to the future, not the past.’

  ‘In which case, I’d like Magpie to name her,’ Madame Montgolfier says, to my surprise. ‘You’re her big sister, so I think you should.’

  I’m flattered, I really am. Though Pierre’s got a glint of mischief in his eye. ‘Without wishing to be funny, Magpie, your parents weren’t exactly experts on names.’

  ‘I don’t honestly know who named me,’ I admit. That’s all I say though: I don’t mention how in my thieving days it fitted me well. That’s my secret never to be told.

  ‘Well, I have to say it suits you,’ Pierre remarks.

  Alarmed, I catch his eye. An understanding passes between us. And that’s the moment I realize: he knows exactly who I am. He always has done. He knows I’m the girl who broke into his house to steal the box, and all this time, he’s told no one, not even me. I feel the panic start. Then, amazingly, a new sort of calm. Because it means Pierre knows all of me, doesn’t it, not just the good bits. And we’re still the very best of friends.

  ‘Go on, cherie,’ Madame Montgolfier passes the baby to me. ‘What name do you think would suit her?’

  Looking down at the sleeping bundle in my arms, I rack my brains. My sister is a Montgolfier; she deserves a decent first name to go with it. Pierre and his mother are waiting for me to say something.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ll have to think about it,’ I say, eventually.

  In my arms, I feel a little wriggle. My sister stretches her legs, rubs her eyes with tiny fists and yawns.

  ‘Hello, Sleepy.’ I plant a kiss on her nose.

  She wakes properly then, blinking up at me. Out of nowhere, the name slides into my head.

  ‘Ariel,’ I say out loud. ‘We’ll call her Ariel.’

  ‘Ariel Montgolfier,’ Pierre mulls it over. ‘Hmmm. I like it, though isn’t Ariel more of a boy’s name?

  ‘Says who?’ Madame Montgolfier insists. ‘If Magpie thinks it’s right then it’s perfect.’

  And it is, because her eyes are the colour of my favourite type of sky – blue, with not a hint of cloud. My sister, I decide, is going to grow up brave and clever and I won’t let anyone tell her otherwise. This Montgolfier girl is going to fly.

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  The Montgolfier hot-air balloon, a magnificent blue orb with dashes of gold, decorated with signs of the zodiac and multiple suns, was unveiled before King Louis XVI of France and his court at the royal palace of Versailles in September 1793.

  The wonder of its age – an invention of significance, as it promised military advantage over France’s old enemy, England – was the pride of the nation. Not only were the King and his courtiers in attendance, but so were the ‘common people’, there to witness a scientific and technological marvel.

  Some say the balloon’s passengers were chosen to replace the Montgolfier brothers, as the inaugural flight was seen as too dangerous to risk its brilliant inventors’ lives. Others say that the passengers were selected on scientific grounds: a bird that could fly, a bird that could not, and an animal never expected to leave the security of terra firma.

  Amazing as it might sound, implausible as it may appear, on that bright autumnal day, as the balloon was untethered and began its ascent into the sky, a duck, a rooster and a sheep became the first creatures sent to the heavens by man – and therefore became the first aeronauts.

  Neal Jackson, winner of The Big Idea Competition. London, 2017.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First thanks goes to Neal Jackson, whose eye for good story potential won him The Big Idea Competition back in 2014. Huge thanks also to the Chicken House team – Barry, Rachel H, Rachel L, Jazz, Kes, Elinor, Laura – for asking me to create a story from Neal’s idea, and then waiting patiently for me to do so! The flight was delayed due to brain fog – I’m so sorry – but here’s hoping the take off will be smooth. I’d like to thank David Litchfield for his stunning cover. It’s an absolute honour to have his artwork on the book. Lastly, my gratitude as always to The Muse, history itself, for offering up some real gems that allowed my imagination to take flight.

  Have you got a great idea for a children’s story?

  Win a chance of seeing your idea transformed into a story for children.

  • Written by a well-known children’s author

  • Championed by a top publisher and entertainment experts

  • Published worldwide

  • Made into a movie, TV, theatre, or more . . .

  Go to thebigideacompetition.co.uk

  Closing date for entries:

  23rd February 2018

  Text © Emma Carroll 2018

  From an original idea by Stephen Neal Jackson

  © The Big Idea Competition Limited

  First paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2018

  This electronic edition published in 2018

  Chicken House

  2 Palmer Street

  Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS

  United Kingdom

  www.chickenhousebooks.com

  Emma Carroll has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical or otherwise, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express prior written permission of the publisher.

  Produced in the UK by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Cover and interior design by Helen Crawford-White

  Cover illustration by David Litchfield

 
British Library Cataloguing in Publication data available.

  PB ISBN 978-1-910655-53-5

  eISBN 978-1-911077-39-8